I have written that I want to experience life fully, live it passionately, feel it all.
It can hurt. And it can amaze and fill us with such wonder and joy. And it can hurt again. And again.
Life is full of so much, both bitter and sweet. And it becomes so much more poignant as we continue on our aging journey.
We love. We lose.
We laugh. We cry.
We are connected. We are deeply, achingly alone.
We live. We die.
It is all part of the package. I cannot have one half without the other. Indeed, the more painful parts help me to appreciate the joy. But to feel it all comes with a cost. Feeling the pain, the loss, the heartaches….not for the faint of heart. Feeling the joy, the love, the passion, the aching beauty of it all…also not for the faint of heart.
To be alive, fully, is to feel. It all.
I have loved people, and I have lost many of them. I have loved animals, and they are also gone. All pieces of my heart torn out. I have loved and continue to love life, and it is temporary. I have felt the deep connection, passion, sheer abundance and elation. And I feel the aloneness, the emptiness, the sadness, the ache of loss, the inconsolable pain of deep grief. The ever increasing awareness of my own mortality and ending.
It’s all part of the package. If I ask for life, I ask for it all. I invite it all in.
And it can bring me joy, although this somehow doesn’t seem to linger quite as long as the grief does, at least for me. Maybe it’s part of being human, of the attachment that precedes grief. Of love we do not want to let go of.
And yet, I am grateful. I would not want to give up the joy and aliveness, so I pay the price of loss and grief.
I love roses. Roses have thorns. And sometimes they make us bleed.
They tell us to be careful of what we ask for. True. But, if we don’t ask, we don’t receive any of it. And for me that would be too high a price to pay. Since I am still alive, I choose to experience it all. I signed up for this ride, so I will buckle up and try and enjoy it as much as I can, until it is time to stop. There is time enough to be dead and not feel when we are gone. But, for now, I will keep asking for life. Thorns and all.
There are times that I find it difficult to find solace anywhere, as the agitation within is relentless during those times and it is hard to quiet it.
The other day was one of those days. There were various things going on that had me stirred up and uncomfortable in my own skin. Days like we all have.
So I took myself for a long walk in the park. I am lucky enough to live fairly close to a park that is filled with redwoods. It is my place of most intense prayer and meditation. It is a place that I go not only to talk to God/Universe (which I do all the time), but I place that helps me stop talking and simply allow myself to be quiet and listen more.
I walked, enjoying the beauty around me, grateful for the smiles and hellos from strangers walking by. And I walked. And walked.
I stopped and sat down in a clearing that had a few picnic benches, with no one else around. I simply sat there. I thought I would spend a few minutes before getting up to walk more. I sat there for close to an hour. Being. Simply and quietly being.
Surrounded by these majestic trees. Trees that have lived longer than I, have seen so much more than I, have wisdom to share. I feel the presence of trees more these days. I feel the presence of all of nature more these days, now that I am retired and have stopped the crazy busy routine that left me no time to stop and breathe. I feel the connection to every living being that I share this earth with.
I touched the trees. Gazed up at their incredible height. Felt their solidness and stability. Listened to the whispering of the breeze through their leaves. This to me feels like the voice of God. Quiet, steady, calm, powerful, there if you stop and get quiet and still.
And I listened. To the quiet voice within, to the wisdom of the trees, to the Universe around me reminding me to stop, to breathe, to truly feel this moment in time, this moment in eternity.
And I let the tears come, some of which had no name. I let them flow. And cleanse. I gave them space to be. I gave my soul space to be. And I was quieted. I was comforted. Comforted with the sacred blessing of that particular moment in time and my being able to be present for it, truly present.
Nothing else mattered in that moment. It was enough to simply be. To breathe it in. To allow all of it to flow through me. It was all ok. That moment was the gift that I can so easily forget to give myself. I was, and still am, so very grateful.
I was eased, held, soothed, given solace and love. A therapy like no other. A touch like no other. A sweetness like no other. A medicine like no other. Sacred medicine whose branches reach into my soul and whisper…..”You are enough and it is enough for you to simply be here. You are loved.”
I have struggled with my weight for most of my life. I easily gain, I use food as comfort and as an anesthetic. And I feel ashamed.
I recently had a photo shoot for a small local magazine. The photos show what I look like. I cannot deny what is the truth of what my body looks like, what my face looks like, what image I present to the world. And here is this image, captured for all to see (as if they cannot see it in person?). Here is the image, that will be published next month, captured and frozen for all to see. The image of an overweight, older woman. The image that is the me that the world sees.
I notice that I focus on what the photo looks like, what I look like. I don’t focus on the honor to be chosen for this magazine, that a friend referred me to them because I have been able to finally express parts of me that I had no time for when working full time. To finally begin to express the writer in me, the artist in me. I don’t focus on the part of me that agreed, with much fear and trepidation, to be part of the magazine, even though I didn’t feel like my story was special. I wanted to encourage others to tell their story, to acknowledge and validate that everyone has a story and their own brand of special that they can share. And to give a message that it’s ok to express this, even though we have been told not to as we compare ourselves to others.
But these last things are not what has occupied my mind these last few days. No, I have focused on the photographs. An image of me frozen in a moment of time that in no way expresses all of who I am.
I think that sometimes I can get fairly deep into denial, avoid looking at parts of myself in the mirror that I don’t want to see the truth about.
But, there it is in a photograph for all to see. For me to see. Going to be published. Seriously?
How many of us struggle with shame about our bodies? As women (and I know that men have their own pain and struggles about these issues, but I can only speak to what I know about intimately), as women, we are taught about the value of looks, of beauty as it is defined by the current societal standards, of unwanted and unloved weight.
To be overweight, to be fat, is to be less than what we are supposed to be. (Well, actually more than, but in essence, less than.) This is not something that we can hide or camouflage, as our bodies are there for all to see, try as we might to wear “slimming” clothes. We cannot hide what is the truth of what we look like.
I ask myself, though, even though it is true that I carry more pounds than I need, that I want to lose weight, that I continually try new ideas to do this, why is shame so deeply connected with this part of me?
I cannot hide my use of food. I cannot hide the layers that I try and hide behind. I cannot hide that I struggle with this. I cannot hide that I am seen as less than and that I know this, on a very deep level. I feel the judgments. The harshest one being my own.
I have internalized the harsh critic, the beratement, the judgments, the disdain. And I fling them at myself. With no compassion.
This hurts. And part of me feels that I deserve this punishment. For being weak and not having the self control to get myself into the accepted shape, even at my age.
Yes, I want to lose weight for health reasons. But, to be honest, the bottom line is that I would like to feel and look better in my skin and my clothes. And let go of the weight of all the judgments that I feel coming at me, both externally and internally.
We are taught to shame ourselves, to hate ourselves, to try and hide and not be seen, to accept the categorization of being less than.
I applaud all the body positive work that people are trying to do these days. It is a step. There is much work to do. It doesn’t take much research to find the disdainful comments that others feel they have the right to make when they see the images of women that are not the idealized form.
Jordan Peterson comes to mind as one example. He clearly writes that the photo of the larger (gorgeous)woman on Sports Illustrated is not beautiful and never will or can be. And although we protest his comments, how many of us abuse ourselves in this way on a daily basis? Is he not verbalizing what our internal judge is already saying? I find myself angry with him for this, yet somehow let myself get away with much worse comments than his toward myself. Toward this body that has gotten me this far in life and survived and struggled and come through so much. This body that breathes and walks and helps me experience what this world has to offer. This body that is a vessel for my soul.
The weight is heavy. The shame is even heavier.
So here is the challenge, I think. How to learn to love myself where and how I am right now, this very moment, in this very skin and shape, even as I try to lose some weight. To accept what is, with compassion. To stop the endless cycle of self shaming which can then lead to further self sabotage. To see myself as I am, as I look, and to see all of me. To see this body that holds who I am and have been. This body that navigates this world. This body that shivers with fear, cold, excitement. The body that feels the grief of loss, the joy of connection, the delight of touch, the bittersweet experience of being alive. The body that breathes, feels, responds, keeps going strong. This body that helps me express my soul through writing, through art, through my eyes, through my smile, through my tears.
Can I learn, on a deep level, that it is ok that we are less than perfect? And that we can love what is, as we keep trying to be the best version of ourselves?
We are human, we are alive, we are flawed, and we are absolutely stunningly beautiful. As is.
Today I broke some rules. I was referred by a friend to be the featured resident for our monthly local neighborhood magazine. Today was the photo shoot.
What? The inner voices, critics, jury, the terrified self appointed would be protectors screamed in protest. Screaming messages like “What? Who do you think that you are doing this? You have nothing to really offer. And look at you…you are heavier than you need to be, look older…..a photo shoot?? Are you serious?”
I pushed through, since I believe that we need to face our fears, face our inner critics, do the deed, break the rules that were put into place to try and keep us safe, and succeeded in keeping us invisible and quiet. Keeping us out of trouble, keeping us out of life.
So push I did. The photo shoot happened. This particular photographer and I did not immediately click (pun intended). He seemed a nice enough man, but the chemistry was not there in a way that helped reduce my anxiety at all, that helped me relax into this photo shoot.
I got through it. 30 minutes or so of pure discomfort and anxiety. Self doubt proclaiming its right to be there, insecurities flooding my system, inner critics demeaning and berating me for doing this, with no lack of opinions about photos that I got a glimpse of.
Their mean comments were relentless. Look at your body, and how much weight you have gained over the years. Look at your face and how much older you look. Look at how uncomfortable you look. What are you doing, posing for these photos? Stop this nonsense now before you make a huge fool of yourself. Stop while you still have time. Who do you think that you are? What the hell are you doing?
The photographer left, and I was left with the chorus of inner opinions and judgments. I took myself for a walk, to get a bit of air for a while. A few strangers smiled at me along the way, which helped. (Please never underestimate the power of a kind smile. You never know what someone’s day has been like.)
I came home from my walk, and could see that I needed to begin yet another conversation with these harsh members of this inner jury of mine. And so we began to talk.
Talking, communicating involves listening to both sides. So I listened, and tried to understand where their comments were coming from.
They, members of this inner jury, have been with me for life. They came on board to help protect me, to take over where perhaps some parental judgments began their indoctrination. They came to save me from further pain and humiliation and punishment. They came to keep me quiet so that I would not be attacked, so that I would be safe.
I understand this. I truly do. And I appreciate their effort, their intention. And now I have something to say to them.
You did protect me, you did keep me quiet, perhaps in a time when that really was what I needed to do to keep living and keep going.
But, dear jury, you then became rigid and took your role as one that lasts a lifetime, which it is not.
To remain quiet is to keep me out of life’s mainstream. To keep me from living fully, passionately. To keep me from taking risks, which also keeps me from potential joy and delight found when taking those risks. To deaden me before I am dead. To live a life on the fringes and behind the scenes. To live and yet not live my life. To accept sad resignation as natural. To not learn all that I could be, and also possibly not be.
Failures are part of life, but they do not mean that I am a failure.
So, the photo shoot is done. And I am not backing out. I will breathe through the experience of what my reaction is when the magazine comes out. I will breathe through the internal opinions, comments, judgments. And I will keep going.
And maybe, just maybe, it will be ok. It will not be perfect. It will cause reverberations within me, will cause tension and doubt. But, it will also be proof of a risk taken, of daring to allow myself, with all of my imperfections, to be seen and heard. It will be a “No!” to the constant message to be invisible and quiet. It will be a yes to jumping into life more.
So, come along jury, for this journey. We can keep this discussion going. You have served me in my life, and it is time to step back, relax a bit, and trust that it will all be ok. You can trust me more. You can ease up. It’s going to be ok. We are going to be ok. Because this is life. And I am still alive. And it’s ok to really live while I am still alive, to fully inhabit this body and this life before it is time to go. Take my hand. We can do this.
I have lived most of my life being fairly quiet, doing my work quietly, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself. This was what I learned to try and do to feel as safe as I could in the world. This wasn’t too easy, since I was an only child, which made it much harder to hide. So I figured out a way to become less visible, less vibrant, less in the spotlight, less seen, less vulnerable.
I have handled my career this way (I was a social worker), even getting the comment from a psychologist that I worked with that I “quietly do what needs to be done”. No fanfare, no pointing out things that I had done. Just quietly doing my job as well as I knew how.
I have done this in relationships, thus sabotaging them because if someone does not truly express all of who they are or feel free to ask for what they really need, that relationship has no chance to really thrive. And we also then act out the parts of us that we think we may have shut down, but that manage to make themselves known anyway, and not always in the healthiest of ways.
And now I am retired.
I have been able to come home to parts of myself that I didn’t have time to attend to. The artist within. The writer within. (Notice that these are also passions that are, at least for me, best done alone and quietly). No surprise there.
However, there is a difference now. I now submit both my paintings and my writing online for others to see, to read. For others to see and hear me. I am daring to call attention to myself.
It is exciting, and also scares the hell out of me. I am leaving my comfort zone, daring to ask to be seen and heard. I am breaking the self imposed rules for staying safe, or as safe as can be, given that life is not really safe.
I am taking the mute button off myself. I am daring to express my voice.
To my delighted surprise, I have had some of my paintings accepted in online exhibits. I have had some of my articles published. I am thrilled.
There is also a part of me that fears that I will be discovered soon (imposter syndrome) and that others will see that they made a mistake. Ah, the internal jury within is a fierce one. The jury that , in its efforts to try and protect me, judges me as not good enough for whatever it is that I might try. I have many discussions with this jury, and let them know the limits and scope of their roles and power. And I add new jurors continually, those with a more balanced and fair view. Those who do not mistake themselves for the judge.
So I continue unmuting myself.
My lovely friend, who supports my painting and writing and growth, and who is a fierce New Yorker who has not hidden in her life, recently recommended me as the feature resident of our very small local neighborhood magazine. My initial reaction was to think and say that I didn’t have anything major to say or to offer to get that kind of recognition.
And I caught myself. I heard what I said to her and myself. And I said “enough”. I think being closer to the reality of mortality does increase one’s courage. What the hell, I tell myself that I am going to die anyway, so what difference does it make? Might as well go for it.
So, I did the zoom interview with the very kind writer for this magazine, who was reassuring and encouraging. And tomorrow, dare I say it, tomorrow is the “photo shoot”. What? Photo shoot? Me? Need I express that the juror whose role seems to be to comment and judge my physical appearance has stood up to take on a major role in this particular endeavor? Indeed, this juror tells me that I should ask the photographer if he has a lens that can take off both pounds and years. I will not ask that question of him, funny as I think that might be to say. I will not make a joke at my own expense. I have had enough of that.
So, I will have my photo shoot. I will hold my breath to see what the magazine looks like when it comes out. I will have a meeting with my jury first, to set some ground rules and limits on their comments and behaviors.
I will choose to be seen, to be heard, to dare to allow myself to be photographed in all of my glorious imperfections, lumps, bumps, lines and wrinkles. I will allow myself to jump into this goal that I have for the rest of my life. The goal of living fully out loud. Unmuted. Visible. Expressing myself with written word and with canvas. Very imperfectly. And that is absolutely ok. It is time right now, right here. It is time.
I have been trying to work on de-cluttering, slowly. One trick that I have used on myself is to pick one small project at a time to work on, and consider the day a success if I attend to that one project.
Today’s project was to clean out one of my dresser drawers. (I did mention that I pick one small project, didn’t I?)
I began to sort through the items there. This was a drawer that I have not sorted through in quite some time. Some items in this drawer included some old costume jewelry, some lingerie items, this and that.
Lingerie items. Some gotten rid of, some kept, as I work though letting go of that part of myself from back then. The part of me that wore such things, that will no longer even consider wearing these particular items. Enough has changed on my body that they will not fit in the same way. Enough said about that one for this particular day. I am saddened by how I have not appreciated my body through the years, and now it is ever changing. I need to still keep working on appreciating what it is now, how it serves me now, how it gets me around on this earth each day. It is glorious in its imperfections and lumps and bumps earned along the way.
Jewelry items. Some are gifts from well meaning friends that do not exactly fit my style. Some items that were my mother’s, also not my style. Hanging onto them was somehow hanging onto her. But, she is inside my heart, not in a piece of jewelry. Perhaps someone else can enjoy these as I will never wear them.
I think about all the other things that I need to work on letting go of. Boxes of things stored in my garage whose contents I do not even remember. How important can they be if I don’t even remember what is is them?
When I look through all these things, these pieces of my past, I remember. I open up old boxes to find parts of my life past and I let go, much as I open up parts of my past inside me that I need to let go of and release as well. Let go of so that I can step more fully into the present, into now, into this moment.
Some things are parts of my parents’ history that I have tried to carry on for them. It’s time to release those, to release their traumas and history, claim my own and work on releasing that as well, and keep moving forward to live my own unique life.
I see now why I pick just one small project for each time. It is always more that what it seems to present on the surface. It presents memories, lessons, and opportunities to express gratitude and release and surrender. To surrender what is gone, with gratitude. And embrace what is here and now. And lighten the load of what I am carrying, as I keep walking on this path of aging. There will be a time to let go of everything. Maybe I can start now, so that the remaining trip is lighter and traveling is easier.
I have fallen in love with an elephant. Actually, several elephants.
I am lucky enough to be able to volunteer at our local zoo. I observe the elephants, record their behaviors, interactions, movements, lives. We at the zoo do this so that we can keep learning about these wonderful animals, as well as keep learning how to provide the best life that we can for them.
Zoos are not perfect, by any means. And the best home for animals is in the wild, where they can be free and who they are. But, there are good things about some zoos. Our zoo does much work for conservation, education, and the work of rescuing animals that could no longer survive in the wild. Many of our elephants were rescued from various places. Rescued from cruelty that we humans, in our ignorance, can inflict on our fellow creatures.
We currently have three elephants at the zoo. We used to have four when I first started volunteering there, but we lost one several years ago. The grief I felt at the loss of her was immeasurably deep. Grief the size of an elephant. You grieve as big as you love.
And now we have three.
I watch as our oldest elephant continues on her aging process. She has some conditions that come with aging. She has some pain that we treat as best as we can. She moves more slowly, but keeps moving and eating and living her life. We watch her.
I have learned that part of what zoos frequently do is to monitor for the quality of life of its residents, not wanting to have suffering and pain. And so we observe. And we continue to love. I love.
Love comes with a cost. The cost is loss, grief, deep sadness and an ache that defies any comfort.
I pre-grieve her already, trying to appreciate each moment of life that we still have with her, knowing that at some point these moments will be no more. I cannot imagine her not being there.
I think about my own death, as I also continue on my own aging process. I also don’t move as quickly, also have things that come with aging. And I think about how I also need to give myself the best quality of life that I can. How I need to sit and be quiet and observe myself. Be with myself. Love myself. Until the moments are gone. Until it is over. Until I am no more.
But, until then, I am still here. I am still alive. I still grieve, for what and who is lost, for what will yet be lost. I breathe, and feel each breath. I laugh, I cry, I work to be the best version of myself as I can be, given that this version changes throughout the years. I am slower, yet deeper. Wrinkled and more saggy, yet appreciating a beauty that transcends the physical appearance. Older and feeling closer to death. Yet more alive than ever before.
And so I sit quietly with my elephant friend, appreciating and loving each moment together. Each precious beautiful, bittersweet moment. For this moment, we are here, together, alive. And I still get to love.
I woke up feeling so very sad this morning, I am not really sure of all the reasons why, but here it is. And so I ask my sadness to talk with me.
Sadness is part of life. And it, for me, is especially so as I continue part this aging process. Losses continue. Losses within my own self and all around me. Grieving is my companion. And will be, as far as I can tell, for the rest of my life. It’s ok. It’s part of the journey.
I have lost family, I have lost partners. I have lost dear friends.
I have lost all that comes with youth. The youthful body with skin that bounces back. The youthful energy and optimism. The looking forward to the future. The quick mind that now seems to take more time to work, that can now more easily forget things. The denial of age related declines that are indeed a reality and will continue to be so.
I have lost my sense of direction at times, my sense of purpose, my sense of self.
I have lost that feeling of being a part of a group when I retired.
And I have gained much (and not just the added pounds that are so challenging to lose!)
I have gained a deeper quietness about life and all that it holds.
Appreciation for the earth and its beauty, with all of its precious creatures.
The deepening of friendships that are now lifelines.
The deepening connection to that inner Self and Spirit that now, that I have more time to be still and quieter, I can invite to speak to me more. I can listen more deeply.
A more vivid awareness of the reality of mortality. The fear of it, the sadness at the thought of letting go of life. This brings so much more gratitude for each moment that I am graced enough to still have.
A deepening self knowledge and gratitude for those parts of me that were there all along but that I had to set aside while I was busy making a living.
Friends that have become my chosen family.
A sense of humor about it all and realizing how vital that is to keep on keeping on.
And yes, the sadness. Sadness that reminds me of my humanity. Sadness that helps me connect with others and understand their pain. Sadness that helps me appreciate the poignancy and bittersweet quality of life. Sadness that helps me appreciate the darkness as well as the light.
So today, on Father’s Day, I will go to the mausoleum and share a cup of coffee with family gone and all others who are there. And then, I will go take a slow walk outside and feel my feet still on the ground, feel the sun and wind on this body that is still alive. And make eye contact with strangers as we share this brief moment in time.
My sadness is a gift, albeit a more painful one. It reminds me to feel everything, see the gift in it all, and be grateful for this experience, this journey, this life.
45 years ago today we walked down that aisle. “White lace and promises” as the song says. Dreams of tomorrow, of a life shared, of a future together.
Thirty three years ago our divorce was final. A sad day. The end of those particular dreams.
We lost touch over the years.
Several decades ago you reached out to make contact. You were married now, with two sons. And you had some things that you wanted to say. The one that I remember most is that you said that you realized that you didn’t work as hard on our marriage as I had.
What a gift you gave me. I have my own regrets for things both done and not done during that time. I try to have self forgiveness and self compassion for who I was then and that I struggled and made some mistakes, but not out of maliciousness. Rather, those actions came out of not knowing how to reconnect, how to fix things, how to leave what felt like could not be fixed.
We have contact now, mostly email, on birthdays, holidays, and on this day, what would have been our 45th wedding anniversary. You sent me a lovely message this morning. I sent you one back, trying to express all that in in my heart that is sometimes so difficult to put into words.
I loved you then, and love you now, albeit in a different way. You and I came together and walked the path of life hand in hand for a while, until our steps became too much out of sync and we couldn’t find our way back to each other.
Regrets? Yes. Would I do things differently today? Yes. But I am different now, have grown (hopefully) in self knowledge and some wisdom.
And so, on this very special day, I wish you well. I wish you love. I send you gratitude for having been such an important part of my life, and for being in my life still.
You will always be important and significant to me. You will always be a thread in my being. You will always have a place inside my heart and spirit. I wish you blessings’happiness, joy and peace. I wish you love.
I find it interesting that it is acceptable to decline a social invitation if we have other social commitments already scheduled. However, declining these invitations because we have scheduled time to ourselves can be seen as less of a justifiable reason.
Somehow, the norm is to be social and engaged. I do enjoy being social, in moderation, and do believe it is vitally important to keep a community and social network as we age.
These days, I am more interested in keeping members of my tribe in my life. People with whom I resonate more, understand more quickly with sometimes fewer words, who feel cut of similar cloth and speak a similar language, even if a different dialect of it.
I find it interesting to notice in myself a twinge of guilt and embarrassment if I choose to decline an invitation with no really “good excuse” as defined by those, perhaps, who may be more extroverted than I. And I am working on this.
I am working on this because I want to live more and more authentically by what I believe and feel is true for me.
What is true for me is that periods of time that I have scheduled as alone time (perhaps time to write or paint, but sometimes simply to be) are vital. Vital for my tranquility. Vital for my sanity. Vital for my soul. And I don’t want to have to make up what I think may be perceived as an acceptable reason to say no. Time that I have made a date with myself is reason enough.
Have you heard the saying “No is a complete sentence.” I have tried playing with this, feeling the urge within me to justify why I may be saying no to something. I must admit that this does not come easily to me, and I continue to work on it. Of course I can let folks know more about what may be some of the reasons that I am saying no. But the truth is, I don’t have to. “No” can stand by itself. I am reason enough. No other excuses needed.
I find relief in solitude. Although others may not understand this, it’s ok. I can let them know and answer more questions about this if they are interested in knowing more about me and. I try to also offer the same to others who may feel differently, who need to have the company of another or others more frequently for their own just as valid reasons. We can learn to try to hear one another and perhaps come together when we can in the space where we can both meet as ourselves.
The bottom line, though, is that if I am saying no to you, it may be simply because I need to say yes to me right now. I have a date …with me. I have a prior commitment….to myself. So when I say yes, know that I will be able to be more truly with you, more present to who you are. Because I have taken care of me, I will have more open and welcome space for you.
But, first, I have to be present for me. Because I am reason enough.
I'm Not Dead Yet! 